Closing the Doors

 

I had already heard the news that the Mt. Zion AME Church in our town was closing.  Over the past few years, the numbers in those historic pews had been dwindling and just the stubborn fortitude of a few faithful people kept the bills paid.  Last week, there it was, on the front page of the local newspaper, the official word.

I only attended the AME Church occasionally, but every time I went, it was a blessing.  My first memory of the church was when I was about 12 years old.  They were having some sort of special afternoon, maybe Friend’s Day or something like that.  My daddy had been invited to sing and I was roped in to playing the piano for him.  Not that I was a great pianist, or even an adequate one, but I was all he had that day, and I had become fairly competent at “How Great Thou Art,” which was what he usually chose to sing.  So away we went. 

It was the first time in my memory I had been to an African American Church, and it was the first time I ever remember hearing a member of a congregation say “Amen” during the message.  It startled me enough that I looked around at the gentlemen just behind us and was amazed that a grownup was talking out loud during church.  I soon found out that it was accepted and expected in that place!  I don’t remember anything about the sermon, and I really don’t remember anything notable about my playing.  I suppose I must have managed without too big a mess or I would have remembered that.  I was too taken aback with the idea of speaking out loud in church.  I do remember that we had some of the best food in the world afterwards, the first instance of several fine meals in the side room of the old building.

Years later, I remember hearing some inspiring music in that church, and I remember some wonderful programs for Black History Month and Martin Luther King, Jr’s birthday.  I learned a little about the history of the church and got to know the people who went there.  I learned that the people of that congregation never missed an opportunity to celebrate something – whether a holiday or just a day they felt like celebrating.  I even learned to join the rest of the congregation in an “amen” or two.

  They always had a meal afterwards, and as time passed, they began occasionally serving lunch there on Fridays, raising money to help keep the church going.  Fried chicken, macaroni (and not the kind out of a box), green beans, fried fish and hush puppies, slaw, corn, potato salad, turnip greens, cornbread and the most amazing cakes and pies I ever tasted – these dishes were served up by the smiling ladies of the church and we ate on long tables covered with checked table cloths, drinking tea sweet enough to make you teeth hurt and agonizing over which dessert to choose.

When I started working at the historical society office, I delved into the history of the Mt. Zion AME Church.  I found a treasure trove of old newspaper articles from a Nashville newspaper run by the black community.  Those articles featured a lot of news about the happenings in the black churches of our town, and told the stories of a devastating tornado that destroyed all three of the black churches on the street, along with the black schools.  I read about the efforts to raise money to rebuild those churches and how the black and white community came together to restore their places of worship and their schools, which at that time were closely connected to the churches.  I found out that the original church that stood on that lot went back to at least the 1880’s and that the “new” church was built in 1910, less than a year after the tornado.  I also discovered that the church held the first black schools in town and a Knights of Pythias Lodge.  The church has a bell tower and a huge bell.  I don't remember ever hearing the bell, but I'm told it used to be ring out through the town every Sunday morning, calling the people to sing and praise God.  And they knew how to sing and praise God!

I always hate it when history is not respected – when historic buildings disappear.  But even more, I hate it when institutions like that beautiful church on Columbia Avenue close their doors for the last time. I hate it for the few remaining members of the church, I hate it for all the people in town who never had the opportunity to attend a service there, and I hate it for those of us who were always made to feel loved and welcomed there.

The Call of the Lord and A Basket of Lilies

 

Back in the 1980s, (I feel like I should just say, “the olden days!”)  I took a “Reminiscence Writing” class in a nearby town, taught by a delightful lady who was a historian and columnist.  Several of us from Centerville drove over together, and I can truthfully say it was a couple of months of the best times of my life.  I ran across this piece while cleaning out some drawers – it’s one of the stories I wrote then, and our instructor thought the story was good enough to print in their daily newspaper. Teen age years are filled with angst, and this was probably one of the most embarrassing events of those years.  That the place where it happened remains one of my favorite places in the world is amazing – I think about it every time I go there. 

Life has its embarrassing moments, and those occasions can be particularly awkward for a teenager.  On a warm summer night in a small country church, the presence of a basket of lilies and an impassioned minister gave me an experience I will never forget.

The discovery of my violent allergy to lilies came when I began playing piano at my church on Sunday mornings, placing me in closer proximity to the flower arrangements than I had ever been before.  The flowers were huge, beautiful lilies, expertly arranged by an older lady of the congregation.  But their beauty to me was overshadowed by my reaction to them – sneezing, coughing and copious tears.  The tears were the worst; they made it difficult to see the music in front of me.

Since my talent at the keyboard was questionable to begin with, it made for some interesting moments in the musical portion of the worship service.  I never discovered a way to play and wipe my nose at the same time.  Finally, in sympathy for my predicament and because they didn’t have anyone else to play the piano, they replaced the flowers with artificial arrangements.

In the summer, my boyfriend and I made the rounds of the Methodist revivals in the county.  This was not so much from any special religious fervor on our part; it was simply one of the places we were encouraged to go on weeknights.  Since friends of ours in other congregations had the same idea, we usually sat together near the back of the church.  I enjoyed the services.  There’s nothing much more pleasant than sitting by an open window on a summer-scented night, listening alternately to the voice of the speaker or to the chorus of katydids and crickets outside.  We sang enthusiastically to music from a slightly out-of-tune piano out of battered Cokesbury hymnals and endured the uncomfortable pews with only a minimum of complaint.

For some reason, we did not get a seat at the back of the Little Lot Methodist Church on this night.  We made our way up to the third or fourth pew and took our seats.  We had been seated only a few minutes when I spotted it.  The biggest basket of the biggest lilies I had ever seen was sitting proudly in front of the altar.  I hoped at first that we might be far enough away to avoid their effect on me.  However, the brisk breeze blowing through the open windows wafted the troublesome pollen right into my face.

By the time the minister was halfway through the sermon, my nose and eyes were streaming.  I used all my tissues, as well as those of every person in my pew.  By the time I started on those from the helpful folks behind us, I felt that everyone in the building was looking at me.  Along toward the end of the sermon, I noticed that the preacher was glancing over at our side of the church with increasing frequency.  I am sure he had a profound message that night, but I confess that I never heard a word of it.  I was too busy hunting tissues and wiping my eyes.

At last, it was time for the closing hymn.  “Just As I Am” was announced as the selection and a fervent invitation was given.  Was it my imagination, or did the minister look at me as he issued his plea for lost souls to repent?

Probably more converts have walked down the aisle to “Just As I Am” than any other song, but no one answered the call that night.  The song has five verses and we sang each one, the preacher pausing at the end of each stanza to reiterate his invitation.  By now, I knew beyond doubt that he was looking at me, apparently in tears because of the great emotion evoked by his sermon.  When we reached the end of the song, he said, “Let’s repeat that last stanza.  I feel that the voice of the Lord is speaking to someone here tonight.”  I figured that everyone in the building knew who he was talking about.

Off we went again, repeating that last familiar verse.  At that moment, I would have welcomed the hand of the Almighty if it had reached down and plucked me from my pew.  I halfway expected that the preacher would walk down and address me personally to ask why I was ignoring the call of the Lord.

I never knew a song to last so long.  We reached the conclusion for the second time and the minister reluctantly pronounced the benediction.  I didn’t waste a moment getting out of the church.  I thought later that perhaps I should have explained to the minister what happened, and my mama fussed at me for not just getting up and leaving before things got so bad. But I guess it might have been a letdown for him to discover that my emotional response to his sermon was, in reality, a reaction to a basket of lilies.

Sacred Sounds

I was reminiscing with a friend about church revivals the other day.  We were both raised in little country Methodist churches by parents who took every opportunity to attend services.  Both of our fathers sang and led music.  Both of us played piano in church, David as an adept and me as a barely adequate pianist when all other options were exhausted.  And we went to just about every Methodist revival in the county.

Most of the revivals were in early fall, most likely because these churches were in farming communities and those dates were between the days of haymaking and the rush to harvest crops before winter.  At one time, the yearly revivals were week-long affairs, gradually shortened to 3 or 4 nights, then disappearing into time.  I can’t remember the last time I attended a church revival, or even the last time I saw one advertised.  The little churches had wooden pews, simple altars, old upright pianos that were not always exactly in tune and open windows that let in the sounds of the night and soft breezes in the days before air conditioning.   The hymn books were from Cokesbury and contained songs like Revive Us Again, Love Mercy and Grace, Love Lifted Me and Just As I Am.  I always looked forward to Love, Mercy and Grace because my cousin, Emmett Thompson, would lead the men on the bass part of the chorus.  When I played it, I loved to really thump the keys on the bass part.

  “It was love (it was love), that took my place (that took my place), on the cross of Cal-va-ry.  It was grace (it was grace), redeeming grace (redeeming grace), that paid my ransom full and free…”  Number 153 in the Cokesbury.

 These were, for the most part, old churches whose walls had soaked up thousands of prayers and songs.  The acoustics in these buildings are phenomenal, and I like to think the voices from the past seep out from the walls.  I still love to go to old churches.  Even empty, they ring with silent music.

I don’t remember anything about the sermons that were preached in those little churches, but I sure do remember the music.  The county was blessed with an abundance of great musicians and singers and it seemed to me that we Methodists had more than our share of them.  Mr. Jim Martin and his three daughters, Marie, Bertie and Anna Laura were perhaps the best known.  Marie played by ear and could make the piano shout as they sang the old gospel songs like I’ll Fly Away.  They made the rounds of revivals, and I never complained about going to church if I knew they were playing. 

The Fox family were another group I remember – they were great friends of my family, and David and I were in the same class through school.  I have a vivid picture in my mind of David’s dad, Lewis, leading the singing at Little Lot Methodist Church, probably the church closest to my heart other than my own little place of worship in Shipps Bend.  Little Lot was also the scene of one of my most embarrassing moments as a teen, when a severe allergic reaction to what seemed like a whole garden of lilies on the altar led the preacher to believe I was having a profound religious experience during the singing of Just As I Am.  We sang all six verses of the song, then went back and repeated a verse or two.  My eyes were streaming enough tears that I couldn’t get a look at the preacher’s face, but I could feel him looking right at me.  But aside from that one incident, I have been blessed to hear and participate in some of the best singing I’ve ever heard in that church.

My daddy was often asked to sing at church.  I remember the first time I played piano for him after my grandmother, his usual accompanist, had died.  I was about 12 years old and a barely proficient pianist, but I could play How Great Thou Art, which was his preferred solo.  Off we went to the Mt. Zion AME Church, one of the oldest black churches in the area. It may have been my first time in a black church.  I’m pretty sure it was my first time to hear an “amen” from the congregation.  I’m sure the amen was because of my daddy’s singing.  It certainly wasn’t because of my playing! Another musical memory, which came many years later, from that particular church is a jazzed-up version of Blessed Assurance which included a piano and a saxophone.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I’m almost certain I caught a glimpse of angel wings in the rafters.

There is something about churches where our ancestors and friends have worshipped, sung, and sought sanctuary during hard times.  The shadows of saints gone on before peer from the shadows and join the choruses of hymns old and new.  I can still remember where people from my childhood days sat. Sometimes I think I could still see them there, if I could quiet my soul and let my eyes blur just right. 

One of the most profound musical experiences I remember was during a funeral when the congregation at the “big” Methodist church in town joined to sing Spirit Song, a newer composition that has become one of my favorites.   Then there was the time a quartet sang Beulah Land at that same church.  That one song would have been enough without another word being spoken.  Music like that can stitch up a broken heart better than words.

The town church used to have an 11-o’ clock Christmas Eve service.  There is nothing like driving to the church through almost deserted streets, hearing the old story and singing familiar hymns, then hearing the chimes at midnight and going out into the silent night, when the stars seemed close enough to reach through and if you could just stand on tiptoe and try hard enough, you could part the veil between heaven and earth. 

Revivals may have become a relic of the past, but the music we made then lives on.  We keep talking about inviting a bunch of musicians and anyone else who wants to show up for a night of singing.  Maybe this will be the year we do that.  I expect some of those voices from the past will join us, if we listen closely enough.  It’s been a tough couple of years, and our hearts can certainly use some healing.  I’ll make sure we sing Love, Mercy and Grace.  And I’ll be listening for echoes from Emmett, my daddy and Mr. Fox.  They will be there.